


Deliverance

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Content, BDSM, Bad Puns, M/M, ginger play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Home Finding night at Imladris and Erestor is at an impasse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> If memory serves (which it doesn't, necessarily) this was written because of Kit.

It was Home Finding night at Imladris.

It was the night when every resident celebrated the founding of the Last Homely House as a place of refuge. In remembrance of the first travelers to arrive and sleep amid the brambles and brakes of the hidden, brush-trundled valley, nearly every resident of the place took a few blankets and their families and crept into the surrounding woodland to lay down their bedrolls among the long grasses and sing quietly and rest under the green canopy which screened them from the night-clad sky.

It was a tradition.

They did it every ten years.

So it happened that these Home Finding occasions provided the rare opportunity to walk the Homely House and find it empty, find it quiet, nearly silent. There were no sleepless Elves wandering the corridors; the baths were empty, as was the Hall of Fire. There were no ovens to man in the kitchen, which was equally empty. There could be heard no sound of minstrels or children or even quiet whispers.

On this holiday night in particular, however, the House was not quite empty. The family and their closest friends remained near to have a quiet night to themselves. Or not so quiet. Nearly twenty Elves were gathered around the longest table in the dining hall, which was otherwise spookily empty and quiet. Elrond, his wife and children, and a few select others were lounging about the place lit with only a few candelabra in a line down the table. The food spread out along the white cloth was not cooked or specially prepared; it boasted only the simplest breads with some honey and cheese, or oil for dipping. There was a selection of fruit and vegetables and wine, and that was their evening meal.

Glorfindel and Lindir had started dinner with a bawdy song about a blacksmith and it was all down hill from there.

As the last of the pudding was being finished off, the conversation finally lulled, and the twins decided to end the night on a low note:

“What do you call a deer with no eyes?” Elrohir asked the table at large.

“No-eye deer!” Elladan shouted back. “What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?”

“Still, no-eye deer!” Elrohir roared with laughter.

The whole of the small party was laughing uproariously at the awful pun or groaning at it. Mostly the latter.

“You moan now,” Elladan told them, “but you’ll use it, won’t you?”

Laughter again rolled in waves up and down the table.

Lindir piped up with, “Where do you find a no-legged dog? . . . Right where you left him!”

“What did the ocean say to the beach?” Arwen offered. “Nothing! It just waved!”

Celebrian jumped in with, “If you drop a white gown into the blue ocean, what does it become? . . . WET!!!”

“What do you call a cow with no legs?” Elrond wanted to know. “. . . Ground beef.”

Glorfindel caught Erestor’s eye and said, “What do you call a counselor in the stables?” Erestor shrugged. “Lost!” Glorfindel guffawed.

“What should you do if you find a snake sleeping in your bed?” Melpomaen tossed out. “Sleep somewhere else!”

“What do you give an oliphaunt that’s about to be sick??? . . . Plenty of space!”

“Where does a warg the size of a castle sleep? . . . Anywhere he wants!”

Elladan and Elrohir refused to be upstaged. They pushed back from the dinner table to stand and regard one another. They launched off with comical timing and expert delivery:

“What do you call a donkey with one eye?”

“A winky donkey.”

“What do you call a donkey with one eye and three legs?”

“A winky wonky donkey.”

“What do you call a donkey with one eye, three legs, and smells bad?”

“A winky wonky stinky donkey.”

“What do you call a donkey with one eye, three legs, smells bad, and playing the piano?”

“A winky wonky stinky plinky plonky donkey.”

“What do you call a donkey with one eye, three legs, smells bad, playing the piano, and reading a book?”

“Genius!”

Everyone laughed, but the twins laughed loudest. “That’s all folks!” they proclaimed. One said, “We go to seek our reverie this night in the shadowy underbrush of our home! See you on the morrow!”

So did the evening end. The twins signaled the leave-taking, and the majority slowly followed, wending their way out of the dining hall between the ghostly, empty tables in ones and twos and threes and fours. Some went the way of the twins, out into the night. Others, who had grown bored of the spectacle, retreated to their own rooms, taking the ups and downs of the stairs of the House, overhanging bridges, and under the great branches of the oldest trees.

Glorfindel had meant to sneak in one last jibe at Erestor, but by the time he’d finished a conversation with Lindir, the dark, detached Elf was nowhere to be seen.

Shrugging to himself, Glorfindel sought his rest that night back in his room, unwilling to deal with some of the nighttime trickeries that soldiers liked to employ against their superiors in the dark of such a moonless night.

It was decidedly odd, Glorfindel determined for the hundredth time or so, to wander these halls knowing that so few were left within them. None of the common torches were lit. There were no footsteps to be heard, or the last of an evening’s general prattle before bed. It was an out-of-place feeling; that’s what he chose to call it. It was out-of-place to know that should you visit the library, you would find it devoid of life; if you were to slip down to the kitchens to rifle for a snack, you would be alone in your plunder; if you were to journey to the Hall of Fire, you would hear nothing but the whispering of wind about the walls and high turrets of the place.

It was creepy.

Glorfindel sought his room, knowing that sleep would be long in coming anyway. His thoughts were too restless that eve.

= = = = =

Hardly an hour had passed and Glorfindel was sprawled naked on the bed when he heard a tap at the door. It startled him greatly, for he had heard no approach and the night had seemed to be so silent.

He shook off the shock and pulled on a night robe and lit the bedside candle. He answered the door to find a thoroughly distraught Erestor hovering in a twitchy, anxious cloud that pushed into the room without warning. Glorfindel willingly closed the door and turned to Erestor, completely unprepared to deal with an emotionless being suddenly teeming with -- from what Glorfindel could see -- fear, anxiety, and something terrifying that overflowed from shadowy eyes in great streams of clear salt water. “Glorfindel!” Erestor begged, latching onto the folded lapels of Glorfindel’s dark night robe, “Help me! Please help me . . .”

“Anything,” Glorfindel all-too-readily agreed, though was leery even of taking trembling shoulders in his own hands, so distant and untouchable had the dark Elf always been. “Anything,” he hastily, though uncertainly, repeated. “Erestor, what do you need?”

Erestor’s sobs increased tenfold. “Please help me,” he begged, nearly incoherent, fingers entrapping Glorfindel’s garment so that he could not escape. “Glorfindel, I need to feel and I can’t,” he forcefully explained in a panicky voice made a mumble by fear and some shaking bodily reaction to an unknown cause. “Fuck me! Hurt me! Beat me! Break me! I don’t care what you do, just do SOMETHING!!”

As if the world was drawn out from under him, Glorfindel felt he could barely keep his footing and he tried to withdraw from Erestor’s talons but couldn’t. He only stared with giant blue eyes and found he couldn’t say a word, so completely surreal was the experience.

Simply standing there, simply seeing the desperate desire for release in Erestor’s dark eyes, hearing the sniffling sobs, feeling the heat and tremble of the so slim body, the experience slowly became all too real.

“I’m damned, Glorfindel,” Erestor finally continued, his merciless battering at Glorfindel’s walls of propriety swiftly conquering with a sudden quiet and rumbling intensity of voice. “I need to get out of this life for just a moment! I need to feel intensely, so that I may remember how to feel at all; I need to give in, or give up on something; I’m not sure which; you have to help me. Glorfindel,” and the tears were falling again, the lull in the sobbing over, the full-bodied shudders returned with gasping pleads. “Deliver me! Deliver me! Please!”

Shaken, frozen, Glorfindel tried to push the Elf away, but could not, for fear of using too much strength, of bruising the creature that acted like a bird with a broken wing, so terrorized. “Erestor,” Glorfindel finally said as he still tried to coax Erestor’s hands from his lapels, “deliver you from what; I don’t understand . . .”

Erestor fell to his knees, but since he still refused to relinquish his hold on Glorfindel’s only garment, the gold Elf moved to the floor with him. The counselor seemed to collapse in on himself, shuddering uncontrollably, probably only half-aware of where he was, who he was with, what he was saying, his unrelenting grip on Glorfindel’s robe dragging the golden Elf into a hunch. “Valar, I . . . the jokes tonight, Glorfindel, the jokes at dinner . . .”

“Yes? What about them?”

“They were funny . . .”

“Well some of them,” Glorfindel granted of the awful puns.

“And I realized they were humorous, but I didn’t laugh; I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t . . . feel. Glorfindel . . .” Erestor’s voice was suddenly a strident whisper, hot and humid at the side of Glorfindel’s paling face. “For so long, so so long I’ve lived this life, pretending and pretending to be impenetrable until I find I AM; no one can reach me; nothing can touch me; and I’m terrified. I need to feel . . . you can make me, can’t you? You can touch me; you can push me so hard, I break, right?”

“Morgoth’s minions,” Glorfindel swore. He hesitated and sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Valar, I don’t know.” Erestor was whispering still, his throat choked with tears, “Something, anything . . . Valar . . .”

Right then, there, with Erestor hanging on him, weeping, trembling, Glorfindel made a decision, and he prayed to Manwe that it was the right one. He grabbed Erestor’s wrists in large hands and . . . squeezed. Erestor whined, but he finally let go of abused lapels. Glorfindel stood up straight, shoulders back, glaring down. “Erestor!” he bellowed in a brusque tone, “have you ever soldiered?”

Just as Glorfindel had been thrown by Erestor’s sudden appearance and distraught manner, Erestor was equally taken aback at the odd question and abrupt change of tone. He jumped at the voice and gulped back his tears and looked up to see the golden Captain towering over him. “Yes,” Erestor forced himself to answer, “in the Last Alliance, and before . . .”

“Good. Then it will not be difficult for you to follow orders and call me, ‘Sir.’ Do you understand?”

Erestor just stared, shocked, dark eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND??”

“Yes . . .”

“‘Yes, Sir!’” Glorfindel corrected.

“Yes Sir!” Erestor responded quickly, warrior’s instincts kicking in: obey orders or you will die, follow your commanding officer, keep moving or keep still, keep fighting or keep silent. Obey orders.

Glorfindel was glaring now, his Captain’s glare, the one he used to get the men moving, to instill a sense of fear and alertness in them. “Erestor, stand up at once.”

“Yes Sir!” Erestor stood.

“Go stand beside the bed and remove all your clothes. Now! Go! Move!”

There was no time to argue, no opportunity to pause or withdraw. “Yes Sir!” Erestor followed orders, moving with a soldier’s energy, thinking the way a soldier thought. He went to the bed and stripped himself of his clothes.

“Lay down! On the bed! On your back! Legs spread! Hands above your head, wrists crossed. Now! Do it!”

Erestor obeyed, incapable of flouting that harsh voice. Erestor lay on the bed as instructed, barely seeing the shadowed canopy above him, some shade of green or blue. He swallowed hard, felt a blush rising on his skin.

Glorfindel leaned over the bed, looking straight into Erestor’s eyes, his own expression schooled into that of harsh instructor. He demanded of Erestor, “Who’s in control now?”

“You, Sir.” That was the answer Erestor gave. That was the only truth he could see in that moment. That was the only answer he could give.

“Too right I am,” Glorfindel growled. “I’m going to leave now, and you don’t know how long I’ll be gone. But -- look at me, Erestor -- I will be back. And you are not to move from this spot. If you do, I will know. Keep your hands where they are; do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

With that, Glorfindel stood straight, turned on his heel, and marched from the room.

Once in the hallway, Glorfindel managed to close the door and take five steps before nearly collapsing, leaning up against the opposite wall, clutching his forehead, almost hyperventilating. “Valar, what am I doing?” he demanded, eyes wide, taking in nothing.

= = = = =

On Glorfindel’s brisk trek through the House, he encountered no one, and the only sounds he heard were the sounds of distant singing that came in through the windows nearest the forest.

He made his way to the kitchen, down the long line of counters and stoves, then through the heavy door into the larder, and through there into the pantry, a single candle his only light. “Ow!” he hissed when the candle dripped hot wax onto his hand; he hadn’t bothered to fix it into a holder.

Glorfindel held the light high, searching the boxes and tubs and barrels until a low shelf covered, like most of them were, with burlap was hiding his treasure. Ginger grew in elongated roots shaped like stubby hands, and Glorfindel drew up the burlap cover to examine the specimens, looking for just the right one.

What was it those recruits had whispered in the darkness on the borderline? ‘What you really want to do is wait until the husk has just a little mold on it; that’s when it’ll be most potent!’

Glorfindel found just such a sample; the plants had been arranged by age, and the ones just accumulating mold were to the left. Glorfindel pawed through and picked up the largest he could find, as large as his own hand, and made sure to leave everything else just the way he’d found it as he made his way back to the kitchen, snatching up a large wooden bowl and a small paring knife.

After the kitchen, he slipped into Erestor’s darkened office, and then out once more to the corridor.

Again, he journeyed through the stair-infested halls of the House, and again he encountered no one on the eerily silent journey.

= = = = =

Glorfindel burst into the room without warning.  
 Erestor’s whole form jumped with surprise, but he said nothing, not even glancing to the door to see if it WAS Glorfindel. He stared loyally to the canopy, wrists crossed above his head, legs spread.

From what Glorfindel could tell, he hadn’t shifted an inch. “Did you move?” he curtly enquired.

“No Sir.”

“Good. Do you know what this is?” Glorfindel asked, holding up the plant as he leaned over the bed again.

Erestor’s dark eyes flicked over to survey the object in Glorfindel’s hand. “Yes Sir. Ginger root, Sir.”

“Aye. It is. Do you know what I’m going to do with it?”

Erestor’s eyes clouded with confusion. He shook his head no. Cleared his throat. “No Sir.”

Glorfindel smiled. It was not friendly. “Good.” He retreated from the bedside, set the ginger root on the nearby dresser alongside the hourglass he’d taken from Erestor’s study. He went to the washbasin in the corner to fill the bowl he’d brought with cold water from the pitcher there. Then, he pulled a chair up alongside the bed and set to work with the knife, carving away all but the longest piece of ginger root from the center, a good six inches long. He spoke as he worked. “There’s an old practice among like-minded soldiers in the old days. It had, I think, something to do with the things you mentioned. Feeling, certainly. Connecting. Awareness, I believe, of body.” Erestor turned his head to watch Glorfindel strip away the husk of the ginger phallus, cut away the stubby knots of the root. “You want to give in?” Glorfindel asked. “You WILL give in to me. Turn over. On your knees and elbows, Erestor.”

Erestor obeyed wordlessly. Slowly rolling closer to Glorfindel’s side of the bed, bracing himself up. Dark eyes watching the knife scrape away, creating a smooth surface, a rounded top. The last thing Glorfindel did was cut a groove in the base of the ginger root, like an indentation around the cylinder, near the end of it. “I will give you what you asked for, Erestor,” Glorfindel promised, rinsing the ginger in the cold water, his hand stroking, mimicking the act of masturbation over the shiny, onion-colored root. “And make no mistake, I will touch you Erestor. I will . . . penetrate you. I will break you.”

Erestor was visibly trembling.

Glorfindel continued to rinse the ginger until he was sure it was cool and clean. He shook it off, water spattering the floor, and he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Do you suppose I ought to tie your hands? . . . I think I should,” Glorfindel decided, setting the ginger on the pillow, so that Erestor could get a good look at it. Glorfindel stood and wandered over to the wardrobe, withdrawing a thick, leather belt. “You said you wanted to feel, correct?”

Erestor almost managed a nod. Then Glorfindel approached so quickly, he barely had time to take in the process of Glorfindel looping Erestor’s wrists in the noose made by the belt, and then get tied off to the wooden bars of the headboard. “There,” the golden Elf told him. “That should make things more interesting. He picked up the ginger root. He traced the wet tip over Erestor’s shoulder, down his back, between his buttocks. Erestor shivered and gooseflesh rose in the wake of Glorfindel’s attentions. “Do you know what happens when ginger comes in contact with a moist bodily orifice?” Glorfindel was circling the tip of the phallus around Erestor’s opening.

Erestor was shaking so bad he could hardly answer. He whispered, “No S-sir.”

“Hmm. Let’s find out.”

Glorfindel teased him then, edging just a bit inside, then backing off, then a little more, then another retreat. He spoke conversationally. “There are oils that act as a natural lubricant. Or so I’m told. It doesn’t hurt?”

Erestor shook his head. The ‘no sir’ was barely audible.

Then, Glorfindel began easing the thing inside all the way, until Erestor’s muscle clamped around the groove that Glorfindel had carved, lodging the foreign thing in place.

Glorfindel stepped back, tilting his head to the side, as if to study his handiwork. He nodded in seeming approval before retreating to the washbasin to pour fresh water and carefully rinse his hands with soap. “I’m told that it’s most uncomfortable for the oil to come in contact with one’s eyes. I wouldn’t want any accidents.” He dried his hands and turned to look at Erestor, who was regarding him with wide, fearful dark eyes.

After turning over the hourglass, Glorfindel sat down on the chair again, crossed his legs, crossed his arms, watched without feeling. “I’m told the effects take time to kick in. Up to two minutes.” He smiled again, a worrisome expression. “And I find that I can be quite patient, if need be.” He sat in silence then. Just watching.  
 He watched the first flicker of curiosity across Erestor’s features, the twitch of an eyebrow, the pull of a lip. Dark eyes narrowed.

“The oil,” Glorfindel informed him, “acts as an irritant. There’s something about it that upbraids the flesh, wakens it, sinks into it. There’s something about ginger, Erestor, something spicy, you might say, something hot. Do you feel it?”

Erestor nodded slowly, concentrating carefully on the sensation.

“You’re about to be more in tune with your body than you ever have been.” He looked at the hourglass. “How long does it take for the sand to run through?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Erestor shakily whispered. “Sir.”

“Perfect.” Glorfindel picked up a book from the dresser and began to read.

Erestor watched in amazement as Glorfindel seemed to ignore him. Erestor’s nostrils flared in indignation, his eyes flicked toward the sand that ran through the tiny neck of the hourglass. Fifteen minutes? He could feel the odd feelings beginning where the ginger lay snug within his body: something like an itch, something heated, something powerful. He focused on that pain/sensation, focused on his body. His arousal at being naked, his fearful submission, the pain of the leather cutting into his wrists, the awkwardness of his position, the freeing humiliation of it. He knew he was blushing. Blushing all over.

Five minutes later, Erestor was squirming like an upset kitten, unable to remove the nuisance, the strange thing, from his body, unable to cease the burning feeling that emanated from that penetration, unable to do anything but squirm and whine low in his throat.

“Don’t tense up,” Glorfindel suggested, finally putting aside the book. “I hear that makes it much much worse.” He watched Erestor struggle to relax. He stood and approached the bed. “Do you know what happens when your muscles tense? It aggravates the already irritated skin tenfold.” He slapped Erestor’s ass.

Naturally clenching against the assault, Erestor howled. “It burns!” he shrieked.

“Keep talking,” Glorfindel instructed, “I’ll keep spanking.” And again the flat of his hand smacked Erestor’s rear.

To his credit, Erestor did not cry out, though from the look on his face, the sensation went beyond ‘intense.’

Glorfindel picked up another piece of ginger, carved something roughly the shape and size of a finger from it. Rinsed it in the cold water. He sat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed Erestor’s semi-hard cock and began rubbing the ginger over the tiny slit there. Back and forth. Over and over. Working the oil into the opening.

After a minute or so, he backed off. Washed his hands again. Sat down.

Five minutes after that, Erestor was nothing but nerve endings. He was screaming madness, writhing on the bed, unable to deal with the duel sensations of fire burning all through him, setting even his skin to pure aching misery/ecstasy.

Glorfindel would not admit to himself how painful it was to watch, nor how arousing. He would not admit much to himself, continually thinking, ‘this is sick! Why am I doing this?’

Erestor was beyond thought. If his words were comprehensible, even he did not know. All he knew was that he could not expel the invader of his body that roared like an ocean through his body, roiling a burning fire, something like sex, something like torture. He couldn’t stop it. All he could do was cry and wail and squirm over the bedsheets.

The last grains of sand were fed through the hourglass. Reaching out to grab his waist, Glorfindel stilled Erestor’s lurching body. “Unfortunately, the effects wear off after fifteen minutes or so,” the cool voice informed. He gently took hold of the exposed end of the ginger plug and slowly withdrew it from the recess of Erestor’s body.

He tossed the thing into the bowl and again washed his hands before returning to untie Erestor’s hands.

Glorfindel didn’t know what to do after that. Erestor was a shaking, shivering, sobbing mass. “Sleep,” Glorfindel told him, hoping that Erestor would sleep, that he would sleep the slumber of the healing.

Within minutes, Erestor was still and nearly silent. Eyes closed, breaths barely there. So still he might have been dead.

Glorfindel smiled and reached out a hand to touch the cooling brow. “That, my friend,” he whispered, “is the Curative Sleep. I will tell Elrond you will not be around for a few days. And when you awake, you shall have all you desire.”

Glorfindel fervently hoped these words were true.

= = = = =

As it turned out, it WAS a bit of a mess trying to explain to Elrond that, yes, Erestor was truly in Curative Sleep. In Glorfindel’s bed. Naked.

It didn’t go over too well, but Elrond certainly knew better than to try to wake someone in Erestor’s condition, so allowed the Elf to remain.

It wasn’t until four days later that the Counselor showed signs of waking.

= = = = =

Glorfindel was just back from the baths after a hard day’s work. He was clad in loose trousers and tunic, hair still damp. He eased open the door to his room, blue eyes immediately shifting to the visitor still ensconced in his bed.

Erestor had moved.

For four days the counselor had remained curled on his side, eyes closed, breathing shallow and slow.

Now, he lay on his back, head turned, breathing a bit deeper.

Glorfindel slowly approached, nervous now, knowing he’d have to deal with a fully alert Erestor soon, an Erestor that just might not appreciate what Glorfindel had put him through, even if inducing the Curative Sleep was probably the best thing for him.

“Erestor?” Glorfindel asked.

Dark eyes opened, regarded him dispassionately. “Water.”

Glorfindel jumped to action, pouring a glass of cool water from the pitcher and bringing it back to the bed.  
 Sitting up, Erestor accepted it and drank deeply, drained it. He furrowed his eyes and looked about. “It’s afternoon . . . how long did I sleep?”

“Four days.”

“Four days?!” Erestor was beyond appalled. He looked half ready to jump out of bed and run naked to his office to catch up on work.

“It was a Deep Sleep,” Glorfindel told him. “It was what you needed. I hope. Do you feel better?”

“I . . .” Glorfindel thought for a moment that Erestor was about to blast him. But the counselor sighed and nodded. “Aye. I feel better. More connected. More aware.”

Relieved, Glorfindel nodded too, and he retrieved more water. “You must be hungry; I don’t think I have anything . . .”

“That’s all right,” Erestor told him. “I am famished, but I’d rather have a bath first anyway. I feel a little . . . stale.”

Glorfindel handed the refilled glass to Erestor, who began drinking right away.

Sitting slowly on the chair beside the bed, Glorfindel watched his guest carefully, still wary. “I don’t know why I did what I did, Erestor. Except that what you described: not feeling. Disconnected. It reminded me of something.” Erestor was watching Glorfindel curiously, and Glorfindel cautiously continued, “Soldiers have experienced similar withdrawal after especially brutal battles. Afterwards, they fight so hard to gain control of their emotions, that they just push everything away, lose touch with reality, with what binds them in the here and now. Something the soldiers would do to reconnect is the ginger play I . . . Well. It’s not usually a powerful enough experience to induce Curative Sleep, but . . . in your case, it was.” Glorfindel was wringing his hands in his lap, looking at the floor. “You have to, I mean, please understand, I didn’t do what I did because I wanted to, because I wanted to humiliate you or have some sort of power. I just thought it was what you needed, and I’ll never forgive myself if I’ve made a mess of things between us.”

Erestor smiled gently at him. “I owe you only the deepest thanks for what you have done for me, Glorfindel. Before we speak further, however, I shall ask you excuse me while I bathe and eat. Then, we may talk again.”

Glorfindel nodded and stood, retrieving a pile of clothes from atop the dresser. “I took the liberty of securing these for you. I will leave while you change.” He set the clothing on the bed and bowed before retreating from the room.

= = = = =

Erestor paid for a private tub in the bathhouse, and took his time, first just soaking sleepy muscles and heating cool skin.

He lay back in the tub, submerging all but his mouth and nose. He could feel the ends of his hair swirling in the water, teasing his skin. He then washed that midnight hair with slothful precision, rinsing out the soap over and over. The same careful attention was paid to each part of his body: face, neck, shoulders, arms and hands, torso, back. All the way down to his toes.

His thoughts throughout the process were surprisingly calm. It seemed he should be embarrassed or upset about what happened. But he just couldn’t feel that way. Instead, he felt liberated. Free. He felt stable. He’d been driven to a pinnacle, broken in the most satisfying way, and finally given his deliverance that he had so begged for.

He stepped out of the tub and painstakingly dried himself.

= = = = =

Glorfindel grew concerned when he did not again see Erestor that day, nor hear word from him. Though the Captain dawdled about the library and searched the dining hall at dinner, there was no sign of the Counselor.

When Glorfindel turned in that night to his room, he knew he would not be sleeping. He lit his single candle and opened one window’s curtains to the cool of the night, the sickle of the early moon low in the star-drenched sky. He could still hear the hum of the music from the Hall of Fire, and distant laughter from the gardens.

He shrugged out of his clothes and sat on the bed, running his fingers through his hair over and over to gently pull out the day’s braids. It was getting too long. He’d have to cut it soon. Maybe real short, just past his shoulders; keep it out of the way.

He scooted back on the bed, pulling up his legs to wrap strong arms around his knees. He tilted his head and closed his eyes to the night.

There was a knock on the door.

Glorfindel perked up, blinking at the door, hopes roused within him. He crawled from the bed and tossed on a long tunic. He scampered to the door and eased it open to find Erestor standing there in all his evening finery. A dark velvet surcoat over smooth greenish robes, his filigree circlet of office, a fine mithril necklace about a pale neck, black hair twisted in a mass of braids. Dark eyes, open and longing, peered at him from a pale, oval face.

“Erestor. Hi.”

“Good evening, Glorfindel.” Erestor’s firm gaze never wavered. “May I come in?”

“Oh. Yes. Please.” Glorfindel shuffled back and let the door swing wide. “I was worried that you were avoiding me.” He pushed the door shut. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“You must have just missed me. I’ve been around.” He looked Glorfindel up and down. “Looks like you’re wearing a short dress.”

Glorfindel looked down to examine himself. “Long shirt. What can I . . .” he changed his words, “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to thank you, Glorfindel. You gave me what I needed, in a way I never could have imagined. You’re blushing, Glorfindel, why is that?”

Glorfindel WAS blushing. He looked away. “I didn’t think very carefully about my choices. I still wonder why I did it; I’m still a little . . .”

“A little what?”

“Embarrassed by my reaction.”   
“Your reaction?” Erestor wanted to know. “And what would that be?”

Glorfindel cleared his throat to prolong his answer. When he did speak, it was nothing but a mumble, “My sexual reaction. I didn’t expect it. I was slightly mortified.”

“Slightly mortified?” Erestor echoed. “That’s quite an oxymoron. Look at me, Glorfindel.” Erestor smiled at him. “No reason for embarrassment, please. I should be flattered, right?”

Glorfindel shrugged, as if he could cast Erestor’s intensity of concentration elsewhere.

“Well, I only came by to say thank you. And also, we’ve never really been close, Glorfindel. I’ve always been very clever at maintaining my distance. But those walls are gone now. I know it and so do you. Things are different between us now; that’s all. You’ll find I’m a very attentive friend, I think.”

Eventually, Glorfindel allowed himself a smile, glancing at Erestor just a little. “Friends? I never thought . . . But that’s good. An excellent start.”

“Start?” Erestor coyly asked. “Were you looking for something more than friendship?”

“Need you ask?” Glorfindel pointed out. Glorfindel had been trying to flirt with Erestor for centuries.

The counselor shook his head and leaned in to kiss Glorfindel quickly. “How’s that for a start, then?”

“Beyond excellent. Brilliant.” Glorfindel’s grin was dazzling.

= = = = =

The end.


End file.
